


Of Namesakes and Pastries

by glorious_spoon



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Homesickness, Hospitals, Postpartum Depression, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 00:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15785148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: It didn’t really hit her until after Daniel had finally been ushered out by the nurses, with many a soft, wondering kiss pressed to her lips, his hand stroking over the soft cap of hair on the baby’s head like he couldn’t quite believe that he was touching something real.





	Of Namesakes and Pastries

**Author's Note:**

> For a tumblr prompt by @lillianmalter, who asked for Agent Carter survivor’s guilt, possibly with bonus homesickness.

It didn’t really hit her until after Daniel had finally been ushered out by the nurses, with many a soft, wondering kiss pressed to her lips, his hand stroking over the soft cap of hair on the baby’s head like he couldn’t quite believe that he was touching something real.

The baby. _Edward_ ; they’d agreed on the name months ago. Not just ‘the baby’, not just a wiggly mystery of a potential person squashing her bladder and kicking her diaphragm, but Edward. Her son.

The thought fit strangely in her mind, unmoored to anything else. Perhaps it was the lingering fogginess of the drugs, or the oppressive quiet of the hospital room, which didn’t even have a view of the city lights to distract her, only an uninspiring vista of the brick hospital wall on the other side of the courtyard. She hadn’t brought a book; in the frantic, excited rush of packing yesterday, it simply hadn’t occurred to her. 

She wished, right now, that it had. The nurses had whisked Edward off to the nursery as soon as Daniel left, with instructions that Peggy ‘get some rest now, dear, while you have the chance’. Good advice, probably. It was just a shame that she couldn’t seem to follow it.

They’d also left instructions that she ring for a nurse if she needed to get out of bed, but _honestly._ She was dreadfully sore, and her belly felt oddly flat and soft under the hospital gown, her limbs shaky, but she’d dug bullets out of her own flesh on the Eastern Front and run an undercover op with a rebar hole through her abdomen, and she’d be damned if this was the thing that would defeat her. Fortunately, there was no one around to see how long she had to clutch at the handrail of the bed before she was secure on her own two feet.

Daniel would be back in the morning; if all went well, and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t, she’d be back in her own bed by tomorrow night, with Edward nestled comfortably in the little cradle that Daniel had finally managed, with much muttered cursing and squashed thumbs, to put together the week before. Likely there’d be an endless stream of visitors, even with her family and Daniel’s both thousands of miles away. Mum had been positively weepy over the staticky international telephone connection, though, so it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that she might actually go to the effort and expense of booking a flight from London to meet her first and only grandchild.

Peggy had thought, once, that she might name a child after Michael. After the raw shock of his death had faded— that was the done thing, wasn’t it? Naming one’s firstborn after a dearly beloved brother, lost too young to the ravenous maw of war?

Of course, when it turned out that said dearly beloved brother was a rogue MI5 agent who’d faked his own death, that rather put a damper on matters.

She had even thought she might name a child after Steve—

The sudden tears came entirely as a shock. Hot moisture welled in her eyes, a knot twisting up the back of her throat. In the darkened reflection of the window, she watched her expression crumple.

Steve had been dead for nearly a decade. It had been years since she’d cried for him. It was only— he would never be a father. He would never hold a red-faced infant in his arms and touch its tiny nose with the expression of wonderment that Daniel had been wearing earlier. Steve would forever be twenty-six, a daring soldier on that last doomed mission, and there were so many things he would never do or be, and if only Peggy had been faster or cleverer or better at her job—

She wiped her face angrily. This was ridiculous. She was being entirely ridiculous. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of her life. If she was going to sneak out of bed against doctor’s orders, it should be to peer in the nursery window at Edward, to wonder at his impossibly tiny fingers and the shape of his nose and the ridiculous shock of black hair that stuck straight up from his head like he’d been electrified, to marvel at her own good fortune. _Not_ to stand here crying and carrying on and wishing that her mum was here so that she could snivel into her shoulder like a child.

“Miss Carter! Whatever is the matter?”

She jolted on her feet, spun to see Ana Jarvis framed in the light coming in through the doorway, a picnic basket hooked over her elbow and an expression of burgeoning anxiety on her face. Suddenly acutely conscious of the picture she must make, Peggy scrubbed at her cheeks and forced a smile to her lips.

“Not in the least,” she said, as brightly as she could manage. “Have you come to see the baby? I think that visiting hours are technically supposed to be over, but I should be able to sneak you in—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Ana said, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind her. “But what is wrong?”

Peggy sniffed. “Nothing at all.”

“Mm.”

“Really. It’s nothing. I’m being silly, that’s all.”

“No doubt,” Ana said, in a tone that implied the exact opposite. She perched on the rumpled bed-covers and patted the mattress beside her. “But perhaps you could sit down and tell me anyway. I brought _vaníliás kiflis._ ”

Peggy could smell them, vanilla-sweet and redolent with nuts, an odd contrast to the bleach-and-antiseptic smell that lingered vaguely even in this section of the hospital. Her belly rumbled. She hadn’t been allowed to eat since yesterday, and while the hospital was supposed to be sending up a tray, it seemed to be slow in coming— and would not, in any case, hold a candle to Ana’s cooking. She settled gingerly down onto the edge of the bed, doing her best to hide her wince.

Not good enough, apparently. Ana gave her a considering look, then said, “Are you quite certain that you don’t need any morphine? I can fetch a doctor.”

“I’m quite alright. Really.” Peggy flipped the lid of the basket open. “These smell wonderful, Ana. Thank you.”

“They taste better than they smell,” Ana said, plucking one of the sugary pastries out of its nest of wax paper and holding it out. “Here. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten something.”

“You sound like my mother.” Peggy swallowed hard around a sudden lump of homesickness and took the pastry before her eyes could start leaking again. The sweet richness on her tongue woke her stomach with a jolt, and she finished it off in two unladylike bites, suddenly ravenous. “You’re right.”

“Oh?”

“They taste even better than they smell.” Her smile felt wobbly and watery on her lips, but at least this time it was real.

Ana’s answering smile was warm. “Have another. And then perhaps you can use your daring spy skills to sneak me into the nursery. I cannot wait to meet him. Truly.”

“It’s a deal,” Peggy said, and reached for another pastry.


End file.
